


On Paper Wings

by french_tugboat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Feels, Hospitalization, Leukemia, M/M, Parent John Watson, Parent Sherlock, Parentlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Terminal Illnesses, consulting husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_tugboat/pseuds/french_tugboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness is a whisper away<br/>Whence it came<br/>On paper wings<br/>And he was gone forever<br/>Leaving the diapason of blindness to guide me home</p><p>Hamish is Sick. Dying, even. Whether that is the worst of the problems it yet to be seen.<br/>Sherlock and John are tearing themselves apart, desperately trying to do what is best for their son, but sometimes even they aren't sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Darkness is a whisper away**  
 **Whence it came**  
 **On paper wings**  
 **And he was gone forever**  
 **Leaving the diapason of blindness to guide me home**

 

“Come on, Hamish!” John shouted. His son, a mess of dark curls was darting around the football field with skill. Getting Hamish out of bed had been getting difficult in recent times, so seeing his son so exuberant on the field was pleasing to John.

“What’s the point of this?” A particularly recalcitrant and rugged up Sherlock asked.

“It’s a great social outlet, Sherlock. It’s good for him to expend some of that restless energy he inherited from you.” John quipped, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock had been married for nine years now. Hamish was seven years old, and a perfect juxtaposition of both his parents’ qualities.

 

“Must I shout like that?” Sherlock asked.

“Hamish would probably fall over in surprise if you did.” John responded.

Sherlock smiled into his scarf.

The commotion of the grand final match came to a sudden stop.

Hamish had fallen.

Hamish didn’t get back up like he always did.

John ran across the field, his heart in his throat. Sherlock followed swiftly.

The gaggle of seven year olds stood back, knowing the reputations of Hamish’s parents.

 

“Hamish? Hamish, are you alright?” Sherlock asked his unconscious son.

John felt for his son’s pulse at his radial artery. His pulse was fast and irregular.

“John, is he alright?” Sherlock asked, hiding his fear well.

“He’s alive if that’s what you’re asking. Call an ambulance.”  
“Don’t bother.” Hamish said, his eyes opening wide.

“Hamish, don’t move. What happened?” John asked.

“I was running; I couldn’t breathe and my heart was beating really fast, and then everything went black.” Hamish explained.

“What do we call a really fast heartbeat, Hamish?” Sherlock asked. They’d been studying human physiology together.

“Sherlock,” John shot him a warning look. There was no need to interrogate the boy in such a context.

“Tachycardia, father.” Hamish indulged, sitting up.

“How do you feel?” John asked, displaying a desperately concerned expression.

“Dad, don’t worry. I’m assuming you’re going to take me home? Father, please tell him I’m alright.” Hamish implored. ‘Dad’ was John, and Sherlock was ‘Father’. It cleared things up.

“Yes, we’re taking you home. Have you got your kit at home or is it at the clinic?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s all at home.” John said.  
“Excellent.” Sherlock responded, standing up.

 

Sherlock gave Hamish a hand up and wrapped his scarf around his son’s neck. Sherlock walked Hamish to the car while John had a quick word to Hamish’s coach, who was understanding. The family of three drove back to 221B to settle things.

 

John went up the stairs first, in order to watch Hamish’s response to physical activity more closely. Sherlock went last in case Hamish lost consciousness again. Sherlock partially cleared a table for John, who propped Hamish up on the space left. Sherlock stood back, his arms limp against his side, staring at Hamish.

 

“Sherlock, under the bed is my kit. Can you go grab it please?” John asked as he began to analyse the percussion of Hamish’s thorax. Sherlock remained unmoving, as though he had not heard John.

 

“I think you’re going to have to get it yourself, Dad. Father’s probably in his mind palace, judging by the way he’s pouting and doesn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular.” Hamish deduced.

“You’re getting too good at that; you’re seven years old.” John said as he went to fetch the equipment.

 

John wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Hamish’s thin arm. Since Hamish was born, John had made sure he kept the child sized ones in his kit as well as the adult size. John measured blood pressure manually, which pleases Sherlock to no end – it was so _John_ to do so.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s hypotensive.” John said, releasing Hamish’s arm.

“Which means what, Hamish?” Sherlock turned to the boy.

“My blood pressure is _low_.” Hamish stated.

“Yes. Good boy.” Sherlock said, ruffling Hamish’s hair.

 

John began to auscultate Hamish. His heart was beating far too fast, even for a child.

“Breathe in Hamish, nice and deep, please, and exhale.” John instructed. Hamish obliged. John didn’t find anything concerning as of yet, thank goodness. He continued to examine his son and documented everything – Sherlock would want to look through it all later.

 

“Are you feeling all right, Hamish? Any chest pain, shortness of breath, any other syncope?” John asked, folding his stethoscope over his neck, and crossing his arms.

“Sometimes it hurts here,” Hamish said, gesturing to areas of his chest. “Sometimes I can’t breathe, like I’m being choked; it’s rather uncomfortable.”

“Any palpitations?” John asked.

“Once or twice. I _hate_ it.” Hamish said, dropping his gaze to the floorboards.

“Hamish, you should have said something.” John said, softening his body language.

“It was easier to not say anything, and father hasn’t been here to deduce things about me, so I thought I’d just leave it.” Hamish confessed. John spotted some bruises on Hamish’s shoulder, and assumed they were from the soccer match.

 

Sherlock had been spending time in Cardiff, consulting on a serial murder there. He had been spending days away at a time, and it was putting strain on their marriage, admittedly.

 

“We’re going to take you to a paediatrician, all right, Hamish?” John said, slipping a shirt over the boy’s head. John made some phone calls, and booked an appointment with the best in the commonwealth.

 

“Sherlock, put the kettle on, will you?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t move. John put the kettle on himself, and sat Hamish down on the couch in front of the television. Hamish put on some old episodes of Doctor Who. He enjoyed debating the plausibility of the occurrences and the possible evolutionary development of the various creatures with his father. John walked over to Sherlock who was plucking absentmindedly at his violin.

 

“Sherlock. I need you to be present right now, all right?” John said, stepping into Sherlock’s field of vision.

“John,” Sherlock said. He continued to pluck at the strings for a minute more before putting his violin down and snapping back into reality.

“Tell me your theories.” Sherlock said.

“There’s any number of things it could be, Sherlock.”

“You think it is which terminal illness, John?”

“I don’t know if you’re mocking me or being serious.”  
“A bit of both.”  
“He could be experiencing some kind of influenza or lung infection, in which case, I’d have heard something telling. Maybe he accidentally caused a valsalva manoeuvre. He won’t really tell me anything more, so I don’t know how bad it is until we see this paediatrician tomorrow. He feels more comfortable telling someone who isn’t me about these things.” John exhaled. He was so stressed. With Sherlock not around, he had to pick Hamish up from school, at which Sherlock said Hamish had no place, being as incredibly bright as he is, and working at the clinic, it all became rather difficult. Sherlock had learned to deduce John’s emotions and the ways in which he externalised and expressed them, so Sherlock reached his arms around his husband and held him. John nuzzled into Sherlock’s chest. Even though Sherlock being affectionate was more of a mechanical thing than anything, it was still a way Sherlock showed that he loved John. John’s head came to rest right over Sherlock’s heart, which beat steadily against his cheek.

“He’ll be fine. He does seem to be a little underweight, and he winces when he moves sometimes, when he thinks we can’t see him.” Sherlock said.

“He internalises things, just like you do. We must get him out of that habit, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing in return and dragged John over to the couch where the men sat either side of their miracle child and they watched television together. They ordered Chinese for tea and ate together, making a mess. John put on a record, and the three of them played cards for a while; it was an activity upon which both Sherlock and John agreed, and John made sure he put on a record which Sherlock didn’t despise.

 

It got late, and so they decided a good nights’ rest was a good plan, bright and early for the paediatrician tomorrow. Sherlock and John tickled Hamish into his room upstairs, and Sherlock read from one of John’s medical school textbooks. After tucking Hamish in, and turning off the lights, Sherlock and John ventured into their bedroom. Hamish would be dead to the world in a matter of minutes. John was getting ready for bed, and he tried to remove his sweater, but it got tangled on his head and limbs.

“A little help, Sherlock?” John asked, his voice muffled by a mass of wool n his mouth.

“John,” Sherlock growled, pushing his body against the length of John’s, into the wall, pinning him. Sherlock deftly relieved John of the sweater and his shirt. Sherlock slowly and delicately kissed John, savouring every movement of every muscle.

“Sherlock,” John panted into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock placed his hand on John’s chest, in which John’s heart was fluttering frantically like a hummingbird in a cage. He slid his hand further south and undid John’s belt. John was completely erect, and he leaned up to kiss Sherlock, and as he did, he pushed Sherlock backward and onto the bed. Sherlock and John undressed each other fully. Sherlock rolled out from underneath John to retrieve lubrication and a condom.  John haphazardly splashed lube over his fingers and he spooned Sherlock, buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, nibbling, sucking, tasting the heat radiating from him, and inserted a finger. John reached for Sherlock’s prostate; a place John could find in an instant. John began to gently massage Sherlock’s prostate. He stopped the massaging and pressed on it gently. It pulsed gently, in time with Sherlock’s rapidly beating heart.

“John, more.” Sherlock moaned.

John inserted another finger and stroked Sherlock inside. Sherlock rolled onto his back, inviting John to go all the way. John stretched the condom over his full length and rubbed lubricant over himself. Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest. John brought his hips to Sherlock whose length was wet with precum. John gently slid an inch of himself inside Sherlock.

“John, _more_ ,” Sherlock said a little too loudly.

“Sherlock, be quiet,”

John thrust in a little further, which was not enough for Sherlock, who pushed John deeper, in all the way.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock moaned.

John thrust gently, slowly, like strokes of a paintbrush upon a canvas. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s back, and took control of the movement between the two. John took Sherlock’s length in one deft hand, knowing that overstimulation was heaven for Sherlock. The bed started to creak wearily as the two men brought each other closer to the edge. With a few slow and deep thrusts, John came. John worked Sherlock’s cock a little harder and he came across his own abdomen. John slid out of Sherlock and dropped him on the bed.

“Come on, time for a shower, Sherly.”

“Alright; give me a second.” Sherlock lay panting on the bed in post coital euphoria. The men showered and went to bed.


	2. Theorise

John awoke first, as usual. He awoke back to back with Sherlock, as was common on the colder nights. John rolled over and wrapped himself around Sherlock, waking him.

“John, no; sleep.”

“We’re taking Hamish to the paediatrician today. We should get him up.”  
“You go; I’ll be there in a minute.” Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

 

John nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck, kissed him on the cheek and slipped some pyjama pants on on his way out. John tiptoed up the stairs to Hamish’s room. They’d recently painted it a brilliant green, just as Hamish liked. Hamish rest peacefully among the sheets. He was a restless sleeper, so the positions in which he found himself every morning were always interesting. John lay down on the double bed next to Hamish. Hamish didn’t stir, which was usually the case.

“Hamish,” John tousled his son’s hair gently.

Still nothing.

“Hamish?”

No response. John felt for his pulse. A little fast for sleeping, but he was alive.

“ _Hamish,”_ John shouted.

Hamish stirred a little.

“No, tired.” Hamish whined. He wasn’t one for whining. John pulled back the covers in an attempt to wake his son. Accidentally pulling up the back of his pyjama shirt, John was able to see the horrible bruise blooming out from the centre of Hamish’s back.   
“Shit,” John exhaled. This was not good.

“ _Sherlock, come here. Sherlock, right now please. Sherlock!_ ” John bellowed.

Sherlock must have heard the anxiety in his voice, because Sherlock was standing behind John, with a hand on his shoulder within seconds.

“John, get in the car. Can you carry him?”

“Of course.” John picked up the boy, still in his Avengers pyjamas, and carefully delivered him to the car. John stepped outside, the cold morning breeze fresh against his skin. Sherlock followed, thankfully bringing John’s favourite beige cable knit sweater with him.

“Go straight to the emergency department at the Children’s, okay?” John instructed frantically, wrapping a shivering Hamish in his jumper and remaining topless. Sherlock pulled up at the entrance and waited for John to take Hamish out, and Sherlock went to park the car.   
  
When Sherlock ran in to the emergency room, neither John nor Hamish were anywhere to be seen. Sherlock had to ask at the triage desk. Sherlock took a deep breath, put on his nicest smile, and tried to avoid condescension. He shyly asked the whereabouts of his family, and a nurse led him to them. John had taken Hamish through triage, and he was apparently ill enough to warrant residence in a temporary bay, while they ran blood tests and assessed him further. Hamish remained in his pyjamas, but they had taken his top off. Hamish was cold, tired, and irritable.

“No, dad. I want to go _home_. We can come back _later_.” Hamish decided. “Father, please, take me _home_.” Hamish added wearily.

“Hamish, you can sleep soon, alright? We talked about blood tests and how they assess what’s in your blood, remember? Tell me the processes by which they test for a common flu virus.” Sherlock instructed, hoping to get the boy talking, ergo distracted. Hamish and Sherlock had a bond that was outside a typical father/son relationship. They helped satiate each other’s thirst for knowledge by learning together. It was the first time Sherlock had ever bonded with someone in such a way. Of course the bond Sherlock shared with John was a multifaceted, complex joining of two people in a way neither could really describe (which was often the cause of confusion and sometimes frustration for Sherlock.) but Sherlock was to Hamish what Sherlock had wanted, needed, and had almost prayed for as he grew up; he was a friend who simply understood the way he worked.

“No.” Hamish stated simply before he curled up and rested his head on Sherlock’s lap, and kicked John until he started carefully rubbing Hamish’s back. When John realised it was affection Hamish sought, John repositioned Sherlock so he occupied a little more space at the foot of the gurney, and John rested his head on Sherlock’s lap, facing inward, to Sherlock’s torso, and he spooned Hamish, whose head was buried in Sherlock’s hip. Hamish fell asleep.

“Sherlock, what do you think it is?” John asked quietly.

“I have five theories.” Sherlock mentioned.

“Tell me.”   
Sherlock remained silent.  He pursed his lips, which was _never_ a good sign.


	3. Answers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock buggers off somewhere, leaving John to deal with the hospital and poor young Hamish, and the progression of his case as more tests are conducted.

“Mr Holmes and Dr Watson?” A young woman in bright scrubs asked, poking her head around the privacy curtain encircling Hamish’s bay.

“Yes, that’s us.” John said, sitting up.

“We’ve found some abnormalities in Hamish’s blood tests, and with the severity of some of his symptoms, we’d like to admit him overnight, just to make sure we know _exactly_ what’s going on.” She said sweetly.

“What did you find?” Sherlock asked gravely. He was obviously stewing theories.

“I personally do not have such information; I am just the intern on tonight’s ER physician’s service. Once we get all this paperwork sorted out, and we get Hamish into a bed, someone will discuss the results with you.” She instructed.

“What did the tests _say_?” Sherlock said severely, but quietly.

“Sherlock, not now. I’m sorry. Thanks for your help.” John said, grabbing the clipboard with paperwork from her.

“She knew something. If she knows something about our son, then we ought to know it.” Sherlock stated.

“The sooner we get this filled in, the sooner they’ll tell us things.” John encouraged.    
Sherlock was getting fidgety. Hamish would be too, if he weren’t asleep.

“If you want to go out for a cigarette, I’ll handle the paperwork and I can hold him. Sign these first,” John said, relieving Sherlock of their son and handing him the clipboard. After quickly scribbling on a few of the pages, Sherlock wordlessly floated off, gravitating toward the exit. John hoped he’d return soon. John finished the paperwork. He flipped Hamish off his lap and onto the flat pillow at the top of the gurney and headed to the nurse’s station.

 

“We’ll transfer him to a ward, right now.” A nurse said, adjusting her glasses as she read information on her computer screen.  
“Oh, alright.” John said. He knew how slow the system could be; he expected they’d be waiting around for a few more hours at the very least.

“Give me five minutes to enter the data here, and we’ll get moving.” She said.

 

*

John pushed his son in the wheelchair, following the nurse in bright purple scrubs. She led them into a brightly coloured room, with all the things one would expect in a hospital room, plus a bench with bedding neatly folded atop the deep blue vinyl. After lifting an unwillingly conscious Hamish onto the hospital bed, the nurse set him up with basic monitoring equipment, with which Hamish was usually fascinated. The nurse ran simple observational tests, and went to leave.

“When will someone tell us what exactly is going on?” John asked softly.

“I’ll let the advising doctor know you’re waiting, and I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” The nurse responded.

“Thank you.” John smiled solemnly. Sherlock had been out for a while now, so John decided to text.

_Hamish has been admitted. We’re on the third floor in room C1042. Come soon, please. – JW_

_I’ll be there soon; I have some business to which I_ must _attend. – SH_

 _What is more important than_ this _? – JW_

 

No response.

 

John watched the monitors displaying Hamish’s vital signs. John pondered how his son had gone from fine one day to appearing to be on death’s door the next. Had he and Sherlock missed anything? For the love of _God_ , John was a _doctor_ and Sherlock was, well, _Sherlock_. Everything would be _fine_. Hamish had quite obviously stayed up far too late reading again, and after the fall on the football field, of course he would have bruises.

John continued to spiral into negativity; Hamish continued to sleep; Sherlock continued to be absent.

 

*

 

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” John raged at Sherlock who stood in the doorway of Hamish’s room in the hospital.

“About, John.” Sherlock answered. He came to sit on the opposite side of the bed to John. John was radiating with rage.

“No. _Not Good_ , Sherlock.” John warned.

Sherlock harrumphed in response. He lifted his hand to Hamish’s and held it. Like Sherlock, Hamish had delicate fingers, suited to the Piano, or perhaps the Violin. Sherlock’s hands engulfed Hamish’s. Hamish’s pulse oximeter showed a ten percent rise in Hamish’s heart rate.

“Hamish, are you alright?” Sherlock whispered intensely.

“Yes, Father,” Hamish mumbled without opening his eyes.

Sherlock gaze wide eyed at Hamish. Hamish was a learning experience for Sherlock, and everything Hamish did was incredible. A doctor walked in. He did not wear a long, white coat, but rather a deep grey, flashy, but not exceedingly so, expensive suit. This did not please Sherlock, who immediately set on edge. Doctors who wear such clothing to work are not the kind who intubate patients in the throes of an emergency.

 

“Good morning, I’m Spencer. I’m advising Hamish’s case. Would you care to follow me to my office?” So-called-Spencer said. Sensing John and Sherlock’s apprehension, he added “He’ll be fine here; we shan’t be long.”

 

Sherlock and John got up, each kidding Hamish on the forehead before following Spencer past the nurses’ station and into an office. The walls were painted a rich gold colour; textbooks lined the walls, and some lay open on the mahogany desk. John didn’t realise that offices like this actually existed; he assumed that films exaggerated. John wasn’t sure what to expect, really; he was in the best Children’s hospital in the United Kingdom.

 

“What tests did you run and what did they show?” Sherlock asked, his face blank.

“We don’t have enough information; we want to do a bone marrow biopsy.” Spencer said plainly.

“ _Why_?” John asked, but he already knew the answer.

“Confirmation of a theory. Look, we can get it done today, and we need results as soon as possible.” Said Spencer.

“What do we need to sign?” John asked, resting his head in his hands.

“Will you use general anaesthesia?” Sherlock asked.

“If you think that is best for your son, we can. We often do for our younger patients in such a situation. If you’d rather not put him under, the procedure will be performed with local anaesthetic, and we can give him analgesics and anti-anxiety medications to ease his discomfort.” Spencer explained. Although none of this was new information to either parent, they both just sat through it.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Local anaesthesia should be fine. If he doesn’t need general anaesthesia, we shan’t do that to him. He’ll be fine.” Sherlock said.  
“Excellent. After you sign these, we’ll have it done within the next two hours.” Spencer said.

“Why do you go by your first name?” John asked, intrigued.

“He sees patients and the families of patients so much it becomes awkward to be on anything other than a first name basis, so he decided to cut the middle man and just be Spencer to begin with.” Sherlock said, still staring straight at Spencer.

“Correct.” Spencer nodded. “I’m going to go get this organised. You ought to tell Hamish what’s going on. Let me know if you decide to go for general anaesthesia over local.”

 

John and Sherlock followed Spencer’s instructions and went to tell Hamish. Hand in hand, fearing the unknown about which they both had theories, they glided into Hamish’s room. Hamish was sitting up in bed, with the television tuned in to the news. He had his eyes closed and his head back, but he was awake. He liked to listen to the news without the distraction of the news reader’s hideous tie, or the awkward brassy blonde exposed as unnatural with deep auburn regrowth showing; none of that mattered.

 

“Hey, Hamish. Good to see you up.” John said, brushing a stray lock away from Hamish’s closed eyes. He kissed Hamish on the forehead. Hamish opened his eyes and looked around.

“Hamish, the doctors are going to perform a bone marrow biopsy on you.” John said, holding his son’s hand in his.

“Trephine biopsy.” Hamish sighed.  
“ _Exactly_.” Sherlock said happily.

“Sherlock,” John warned wearily.

“Will I be awake? Are you going to do it, Dad?” Hamish asked.

“No, the doctors here are going to do it. You will be awake, but you’ll feel some pressure where the needle is inserted–” John began.

“But we’ll have you dosed to the seven seas on anti-anxiety medication as well as the analgesics if you wish.”  
“Sherlock, we’ll give him recommended dosages, thank you.” John said sternly.

“That would be nice. When are we doing all this?” Hamish asked.

“Within the next two hours.” Sherlock said.

“Oh, well, alright.” Hamish said. He reached out for Sherlock’s hand with his free one and once he held a hand from each parent, he closed his eyes and rested his head back on the pillow, listening to the news again. They all barely moved, until at the end of the current story, Hamish spoke.

 

“I’m sick, aren’t I?” He said, sounding bored.

“We don’t know, Hamish.” John said, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Between the two of you, a doctor and a consulting detective, not to mention my parents, you know _everything_. Tell me.” Hamish said succinctly.

“We _don’t_ know.” John insisted.

“Tell me your theories.” Hamish demanded. Neither Sherlock nor John spoke.

“Is it _that_ bad? Dad? Father?” Hamish sounded small again, the small, frightened child he really was, rather than the commanding young man he otherwise was.

“We shan’t mention our theories, they may just some true.” Sherlock said, gently tapping the end of Hamish’s nose. John thought that sounded morbid and terrifying – their theories were quite obviously dire, but the creases vanished from Hamish’s forehead and he looked up at Sherlock in wonderment. At that moment, a doctor in scrubs with two nurses in tow quietly entered the room. The pulse oximeter, which John and Sherlock subconsciously took turns in watching, showed Hamish’s heart rate surge. Hamish shrunk into himself; he wasn’t good with new people, and with no one telling him anything Hamish was stressing, which also wasn’t helped by his propensity to pick up on his parents’ stress.

 

“Hamish, it’s fine, really.” John said.

“We need to insert an IV, Hamish.”

“Oh; alright.” Hamish said. He was expecting something worse. The nurse swiftly inserted the needle with the usual pre-needle commentary about how it’s only a small pinch, really. With a few clicks of buttons on one of the machines, the blood pressure cuff began to inflate. One of the monitors began flashing red and beeping.

“It’s alright, Hamish. The cuff cuts off the blood supply to the rest of your arm, which prevents the pulse oximeter on your finger from being able to detect your pulse, and so it thinks you’re dead, which is why it’s doing that. It’ll stop in a second.” John said calmly.

“Hamish, you’ll be okay, I promise.” Sherlock said, noticing Hamish’s almost alarmingly high blood pressure.

“I’m _fine_ , I know everything’s _fine_ and I will be _fine_ and let’s just do this.” Hamish said. He hated people paying attention to his physical wellbeing; it made him uncomfortable, and so he tried to avert the attention by just getting on with things.

“Oh, alright. Here, take these and we’ll be back in twenty minutes or so to take you down to theatre, alright?” The doctor said, handing Hamish a few pills and a glass of water.

“A very low dose of benzodiazepines, which should calm him down and make this less traumatic for him.” The doctor said to John and Sherlock.

 

Hamish hated it when people talked about him to his parents when he was in the room; he was more than capable of engaging in such conversations and he disliked being patronised in such an undignifying fashion.  After ensuring Hamish had taken the pills and that everything had been signed as needed, all the staff left. Hamish continued to listen to the news. Both Sherlock and John were glad to see that the nurse had set the machine to automatically retake Hamish’s blood pressure every five minutes. Over the course of the twenty minutes between the departure and re-arrival of the staff, Hamish’s blood pressure dropped back within a healthy range, which pleased John, Sherlock, and the hospital staff.

 

“Ready to go, Hamish?” The nurse from before asked.  
“Sure.” Hamish said, lifting his head from the pillow. He wasn’t pleased with having to leave his parents and the news, but he presented no protest. John and Sherlock kissed Hamish in the forehead before the nurse put Hamish in a wheelchair and wheeled him off. It bewildered Hamish why they would put him in a wheelchair – he was perfectly capable of walking. It occurred to him, as the nurse helped him onto the table in the theatre that it probably had something to do with minimising the risk of injury, probably for insurance purposes and to have people in and out of hospital as quick as possible. Hamish was almost instantly under twilight sedation as soon as the nurse finished fidgeting with the equipment. He was aware of the heavy pressure he felt at his hip, and the doctor talking to him, but it all felt relatively distant. Time went by quickly, and the nurses loaded him onto a gurney and back into the ward where his fathers waited anxiously. He fell asleep on the way.


	4. News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish wakes up  
> Hamish's results are in, and someone doesn't take it too well

“Hamish,” Sherlock squeaked as Hamish opened his eyes.

“Father,” Hamish acknowledged.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked.

“Fine. Where’s Dad?” Hamish lied. His hip ached deeply.

“Oh, well, I’ll make sure it stays that way. He went to get coffee.”

“I thought we told him to cut down on caffeine. He had a cup on the way here, and I smelled coffee on him before I went in.” Hamish mused.

“Observant, as always, Hamish.”

“Ah, you’re awake; excellent.” John smiled, brandishing two cups of coffee. Hamish and Sherlock smiled.

“What are you two? Oh, never mind. How are you feeling?” John asked.

“Fine; _you_ were supposed to cut down on caffeine.” Hamish accused.

“Hmm. It’s you we’re worrying about, not me. Really, how are you feeling, Hamish.” John put on his ‘doctor voice’ that Hamish and the intense stare that usually came with it. Hamish hated it; he couldn’t lie to his Dad when he did all that.

“Look, it hurts a bit, but I’m fine. It’s supposed to hurt; they stabbed me in the bone with a needle and sucked the stuff out. If it didn’t hurt, that’d be concerning, not _pain_.” Hamish ranted. For a seven year old, he was incredibly bright.

“Well, we can make you more comfortable.” John said.

Hamish merely grunted softly in response.

“Hamish,” John sighed.

“Did we bring any books? What have you got on you, father?” Hamish asked.

“No, we didn’t. I haven’t got any on me, either.” Sherlock sighed.

“You’re not telling the truth.” Hamish mused gently. He was right; Sherlock had brought with him books and articles pertaining to his more serious theories regarding his son’s health. These were not documents Sherlock wanted to share with Hamish for obvious reasons. John glared at Sherlock.

“Good afternoon; how are you feeling Hamish?” One of the nurses from before asked.

“Fine, thank you.” Hamish said.

“No pain?” She asked sweetly.

“Yes, actually. He doesn’t like talking about it.” John jumped in before Hamish could answer.

“Do we have results yet?” Sherlock asked.

“They’ll be a few more hours. I’ll be right back.” The nurse said as she walked out the door. She was back within seconds, brandishing a needle, which she inserted into the port in the IV line and injected it, then flushed it with saline.

“That’ll help with the pain, Hamish.” She said.

“Thanks,” Hamish said meekly.

“Thank you,” John said as the nurse shuffled off.

“John, you need to eat.” Sherlock said.

“I’m fine, thank you.” John replied curtly.

“No." Sherlock said defiantly. “You can’t live off coffee and the occasional vending machine sandwich.”

“You do. I’ll be fine.” John retorted.

“You know all too well that all bodies are different from each other, and you know how mine works. I’ll be back.” Sherlock said, and with a single step, he was out the door.

 

*

 

“John, Sherlock, come to my office.” Spencer said warmly, poking his head in the door to Hamish’s room. Hamish was asleep again.

 

The three men sat in the same places as before. John’s heart was racing. Sherlock, sensing John’s discomfort, grabbed his partner’s hand. John squeezed hard enough for Sherlock to internally wince a little.

 

“We have the results from the aspiration.” Spencer began.

“Oh, God,” John said.

“He hasn’t even said anything yet, John.” Sherlock smiled.

“In conjunction with analysing Hamish's blood samples, the findings would suggest Acute Lymphoblastic Lymphoma.” Spencer finished, looking at each Sherlock and John.

 

Sherlock’s mind raced. He briefly escaped into his mind palace. _Leukaemia, Acute Lymphoblastic; survival rate (continuously disease free for equal to or greater than five years) in children is ninety-four percent. Lethal in a matter of weeks if not treated, which is the opposite of_ chronic _Lymphoblastic Leukaemia. ALL has a peak incidence in children aged two to five years, and another spike in the elderly. We can beat this._

 

Upon re-entering reality, he became aware of John’s reaction. John’s breath hitched. His world suddenly went half speed; gravity exerted ten times its usual pressure; his heart beat irregularly; John stood abruptly, in an attempt to start pacing to shake the feeling of lead in his stomach, but he lost consciousness and fell, hitting his head on the desk on the way down.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Sherlock and Spencer quietly exclaimed in tandem.

 

Sherlock knelt next to John and found his pulse. Fast and irregular. Spencer made his way around the desk and did the same. He then gently manipulated John’s head to expose the bloodied part of his head.

 

“We should get him on a gurney.” Spencer said, before reaching into his pocket and fingering his pager. “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“I’ll be fine once we sort John out and get a treatment plan organised for Hamish.” Sherlock snapped. He hadn’t meant to yell like that, but he was under stress and didn’t like talking about such things. Four nurses appeared in the doorway and wheeled a gurney in.

 

“Syncope. Suspected vasovagal response, and a head injury. Get him an ECG and then get him up to CT, please.” Spencer directed. The nurses sprang into action and flipped John onto a board and lifted him onto the gurney, where he regained consciousness. He tried to sit up, but Sherlock gently pushed his shoulders down.

 

“John, stay there, okay. You hit your head pretty hard. I’ll go watch over Hamish. Please be compliant. Love you.” Sherlock said. He kissed John on the forehead and the nurses hurriedly wheeled him off.

“Has he experienced syncope before, Sherlock?” Spencer asked, reaching for Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock absentmindedly lifted his arm for Spencer who felt for his pulse.   
“No. He does, however, not eat. He suffers from PTSD after he got back from duty in Afghanistan. He won’t talk about it but he suffers from an eating disorder, and he hasn’t consumed a great amount of liquids since we arrived here. That combined with the stress of having a child in hospital, plus the added stress of Hamish’s diagnosis; not to mention the standing up – he likes to pace – means that his heart was rendered incapable of pumping enough blood to his head, ergo syncope.” Sherlock ranted.

“Well, yes, probably.” Spencer said.

“Treatment plans for Hamish? We don’t have a lot of time.” Sherlock panted. Spencer sat down on his side of the desk and gestured at Sherlock to sit.

“Chemotherapy and radiation. First we need to see if it has spread to the brain and spinal cord, which we’ll find out after we do a lumbar puncture.” Spencer said flatly.

“Good. Can we get the lumbar puncture done today?” Sherlock asked.

“I think so, yes. The turnaround for results is fairly quick, so we might be able to schedule Chemo for as soon as tomorrow.” Spencer said.

“Excellent. Thank you.” Sherlock said, not linking the idea in his head that hospitals only rush like that when it means life or death.

 


	5. It's called 'breaking the news' for a reason.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sorted out, and he and Sherlock have to tell Hamish his diagnosis and prognosis.

“I’m fine, really.” John insisted as the nurse stuck the electrodes all over his torso, arms, and legs.  
“John, relax. We’ll just finish up these tests, and you’ll be back to your family in no time.” The nurse assured him.

John lay back on the gurney in the cardio lab and waited for the printout. He knew exactly how it would read, and that there was really no need for concern. After deciding that he wasn’t going to die, the nurse wheeled him up to CT. 

John remained compliant throughout the whole ordeal, even when they wheeled him into a bay in the short stay observation unit. They began monitoring his vitals and left. Spencer arrived after only minutes of John being left alone. He came in brandishing an IV kit and an IV bag containing clear liquid.

“Sherlock tells me you’ve not been eating. Are you seeing a therapist regularly, John?” Spencer asked bluntly as he put the IV things on a tray and pilfered in the locked cabinet next to John’s bed for a needle.  
“Sherlock’s an idiot. I haven’t since my psychosomatic limp went away.” John retorted.   
Spencer took John’s arm and tried to draw blood. It was thick and difficult to draw, leading Spencer to conclude that John was dehydrated. Spencer started an IV in the crook of John’s elbow.  
“It’s just fluids for now. You’re going to stay here and get rehydrated. Someone will come and patch you up. You’re going to eat something, get some rest, and then, once this is empty, and I see fit, you can go back up and reunite with your family. You’ve got a long road ahead of you John, but it’s one we can deal with. You need to take care of yourself.” Spencer directed sternly. “Do I need to call your psychiatrist?”  
“No, thank you, I’ll be fine.” John said, lying back against the elevated top half of the bed.

Spencer left. He was gone barely ten minutes before a nurse came to attend to his head wound. John needed a couple of stitches, and after the nurse gave him a sandwich and some analgesics, John fell into a deep and restorative slumber.

*

“John, how are you feeling?” Spencer asked.  
John opened his eyes, and looked around. He remembered the previous occurrences, and noted that he’d exhausted all the fluid from the drip.   
“I feel good. How’s Hamish? What kind of a plan are we thinking about for him?” John asked tentatively.  
“I talked to Sherlock about it. Common and effective plans for like cancers involve chemotherapy and maybe radiation, depending on how he reacts. We did the lumbar puncture, and thankfully it hasn’t infiltrated his spine and brain.” Spencer informed John.  
“Excellent. Can I go back to my family now?” John pleaded.  
“Give me a minute to clear you and then yes.”   
Spencer rechecked John’s blood pressure, pupillary response, and made sure he was hydrated before walking John up to Hamish’s room. At the door, John paused and took a deep breath before walking in.

“Dad! You’re back. You’re an idiot. Are you alright?” Hamish gushed. He barely stood out from the white sheets which swallowed him whole.  
“Yes, I know. I’m fine.” John smiled, kissing Hamish and Sherlock on the cheek in turn.  
“He’s getting quite good at counting cards.” Sherlock announced proudly.  
“Sherlock, you can’t–” John began. “Of course you’d start teaching him that.”  
“It’s very simple, really.” Hamish insisted happily.  
“I’m sure it is, Hamish.” John smiled. Hamish looked happy. “Sherlock, a word?” John led Sherlock into the hallway.  
“John, how are you?” Sherlock exhaled, embracing John and burying his face in the shorter man’s neck. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock from inside his coat. The two men spent a few seconds reacquainting themselves with each other before separating.   
“I’m fine. Why did you say those things to Spencer?” John inquired.  
“It was conducive to your medical history.”  
“Sherlock, you didn’t have to tell him about the PTSD. I’m getting better.”  
“You still don’t eat, which was relevant to your loss of consciousness. To explain that, I told him about your PTSD. You quite clearly have an eating disorder, John.”  
“I eat as well as you do, Sherlock.”  
“I have always maintained like dietary habits, John. We sit down and eat something at breakfast and dinner in order to encourage normal eating habits for Hamish, where you’ll eat half a sandwich and lose interest in it. You drink a lot of tea because your body craves sugar. You drink coffee because you need an extra kick of energy because you barely eat enough to sustain yourself. Before Hamish came along, we barely ate or slept at all, and having him around has put us in position to encourage habits of normalcy, which I sincerely doubt he’ll maintain if we leave him at home for a few days at a time when he’s older, or when he leaves for university should he choose to. John, you can’t fool me, so don’t try to.” Sherlock said with his hands on John’s shoulders. John was a lot more partial to being manipulated and influenced when touched, Sherlock had noticed.  
“Sherlock, I’m fine, it’s Hamish we have to worry about. You haven’t said anything, have you?”  
“No, I haven’t said anything to Hamish. We’ll tell him now, and hopefully we can organise chemotherapy for later today, and we can get this all sorted.”  
“You think he’ll just be fine with it? We can’t lie to him; he’s too smart for that, but to just tell him the truth?”  
“He’ll be okay, John.”  
“Will we?”  
“Everything and everyone will be fine. Come on, let’s talk to him.” Sherlock kissed John impassionedly before grabbing his hand and leading him into Hamish’s room, where he would have to put into words that which he feared most.

“Hamish, we got your test results back.” Sherlock said plainly. John sat down next to Hamish and grasped one of his hands within the two of his own.  
“Dad? Father?” Hamish asked, confused by the sudden outpour of tension from his parents.  
“Hamish, you have Leukaemia.” John heaved.   
“Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia. You have a ninety-four percent chance at a continuous disease free survival after five years. Cure is a realistic goal. You’ll be okay. It’s going to be tough, but you’ll be fine, Hamish.” Sherlock finished. Tears streamed down John’s face. He took a deep breath and Sherlock sat across from him on Hamish’s bed, and wiped them away.  
“Oh,” Hamish said. John’s crying was distressing for Hamish – He’d just been told by one parent who was a doctor that he had leukaemia, and that parent was crying and freaking out, and the other parent said he had a ninety four percent chance at a cure! Hamish was used to the juxtaposition of the way his parents dealt with emotions, but who was he supposed to align his attitude with? Was he going to die or not?  
“You’re going to be okay, Hamish.” John sighed before smiling.  
“What are we going to do?” Hamish asked.  
“Chemo, and maybe radiation as well. Whatever it takes to get you better.” John said.  
“Due to the nature of this particular illness, we need to start treatment immediately.” Sherlock informed him.  
“Oh, um, okay." Hamish mumbled.


	6. Chemo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for chemo, and an aggressive round at that.

After the paperwork was signed, discussions held, and decisions made, Spencer took John, Sherlock, and Hamish down to the oncology ward. The ward to which Spencer led them was brightly coloured, and lining the walls were bays which contained the expected medical equipment, but in stead of beds, there were big, comfortable looking vinyl armchairs. Spencer led them to a bay and helped Hamish into the chair. Precipitously, Hamish became paralysed by fear. They told him the side effects, immediate and long term; they told him some of the chemicals that would soon be flowing through his veins, chemicals that he knew wee hazardous and lethal; Hamish knew he had no choice, and that this would likely cure him completely, but the ineffable magnitude of the situation hit Hamish. He got lost in his own thoughts, pondering death, afterlife (if there was anything as such), and he found himself thinking about deities, and what it all meant.

 

“Hamish,  _Hamish._ ” Spencer called, pulling Hamish out of his contemplation. “Hamish, I need your arm so I can insert the IV.” Spencer added. Hamish shrunk away, into himself.

“Hamish, it’s alright.” Sherlock soothed.

“Hey, it’s okay.” John soothed.

Hamish tucked his arm underneath his other and curled up on his side. John sat on the edge of the chair and rubbed Hamish’s back. As much as he hated to see his son struggle, he was glad that he emitted a normal emotional response. After a minute of John rubbing Hamish’s back, Hamish stuck his hand out to John. Spencer rolled the trolley with the IV kit to John, who gloved up and prepared the needle.

“A little pinch, H.” he said quietly, before swiftly inserting the needle into his son’s hand. He stepped back to allow Spencer to finish the rest. After a little negotiation, Spencer inserted a central venous catheter in Hamish’s subclavian vein and prepared the rest.

 

Hamish lasted two hours before he vomited. The sheer quantity was a truly spectacular effort for such a small body. John and Sherlock would take turns rubbing Hamish’s back, switching when their hands numbed. John and Sherlock read to Hamish, and after Hamish became too nauseated to care what his parents read, John and Sherlock argued over which books to read him. They settled on The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and The Hobbit – They were childhood favourites of John’s and Sherlock said that they engaged an awareness of science and nature through engaging imagination, but the real reason, although Sherlock would never admit it, was that  Mycroft had read them to him as a young’un. John and Sherlock curled up on a chair next to Hamish’s chair and read the books together. They put on voices for each of the characters (Sherlock was particularly adept at the voices of the women and the supernatural creatures, whereas John had a propensity for the strong and emotive characters, which amused Hamish to no end), and gesticulated wildly, (which nearly caused Sherlock to fall out of John’s lap and onto the floor many a time) even though Hamish often kept his eyes closed. When Hamish vomited again, (only twice in a seven hour session wasn’t too bad an innings, really) John and Sherlock put the books down, John and Sherlock found separate chairs, and they just sat with Hamish as he tried to sleep. The nurses’ sporadic appearances were primarily for the purpose of making sure the IV line and pump was functioning perfectly and that he was as comfortable as possible. As day turned to night, the lights in the facility were dimmed, leaving the light on the wall behind Hamish casting a crepuscular glow upon the now taciturn Watson-Holmes family. In his nebulous pondering, John realised he hadn’t contacted the clinic to tell them what was going on, or at least a hint of the emergency at hand. He reached around in his pockets and pulled out his phone. He sent a succinct email to the ever forgiving Sarah, who replied almost immediately. 

 

_Hi, John,_

_Sherlock called yesterday morning and said you’d be out a few days. Take as much time as you need, just keep us posted. We can talk paperwork and red tape at a later date._

_Best of luck,_

_Sarah._

 

Sherlock had  _called_  her. Sherlock hated talking to people. He wasn’t very good at it, especially without the aid of visual cues.  He’d thought outside himself, and John, and Hamish, and outside of the little world of 221B Baker Street which, at times, felt like a cocoon, seeming so sundered from the rest of the planet; Sherlock had been stepping up as a parent and as a husband. He was particularly recalcitrant toward Mycroft who cast doubts upon Sherlock’s ability to raise a child, and he really was proving Mycroft wrong, and forever surprising John. It wasn’t that John thought Sherlock an unfit parent, far from it, contrarily; it was just that Sherlock was always Sherlock and his behaviours and attitudes and motives had always been consistent and John didn’t expect nor would ever ask Sherlock to change or sacrifice parts of himself for the sake of anyone else; in areas Sherlock lacked, John would compromise. That was always the way John had anticipated co-parenting with Sherlock would be, but Sherlock was a dedicated, loving father and husband, and was forever reaching out of his comfort zones for the benefit of his kin. Sherlock had called his boss at the first concrete sign of having to be away from work, and sorted things out. He just  _did_  it. As much as it was cliché sentimental drivel, John often felt himself falling harder and harder for Sherlock, and being surprised at his ever intensifying bond with Sherlock. John looked over at his family. Hamish managed to fall asleep, which was a great relief to John. He hoped Hamish’s vibrant curls wouldn’t fall out because of chemo, but with the scheduled regime, it was very likely. Sherlock perched in a chair on the opposite side of the bed with Hamish’s hand in his. Like his son, Sherlock appeared to be asleep. Sherlock hadn’t slept since the night before the whole hospital ordeal started, and it had been a couple of days. John sat and watched over his family until it was time to go back to Hamish’s room.

“Sherlock,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently. His eyes opened slowly and he looked around at the temporary nest they had forged within the confines of the curtain which hid them from view.

“Is it time to take him back up?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, the bag’s empty. I’ll go find a nurse.” John said. He went to the desk, which was painted with a myriad of cartoon characters and a nurse followed him back to Hamish. The nurse managed to slip the needle out of Hamish’s hand without waking him, and she suggested picking him up and carrying him back. Before John had a chance to do so, Sherlock lithely scooped Hamish into his arms. Hamish barely stirred, only to wrap his legs around his father’s waist. When they convalesced, it was impossible to tell where Sherlock’s hair ended and Hamish’s started. The Watson-Holmes family marched solemnly, and upon reaching the bed which engulfed their son, Sherlock smoothly lay down, keeping Hamish in his arms, and John tucked them in. After retrieving the blanket folded at the end of the cot meant for parents, John sat in the chair next to the bed and held onto Sherlock’s hand and fell asleep.

For days, all they did was chemo; they barely ate, they barely slept, they just floated in and out of the treatment centre until it became easier to have the treatments in Hamish’s room. On the third day, Hamish developed mouth sores. On the eleventh day, Hamish’s hair began to cover his pillow rather than his head. John had gone to gently ruffle Hamish’s hair, and strands like rough cotton candy gently came away from Hamish’s head. Hamish cried when faced with separating with his hair – it was part of his identity; he looked just like father when he was seven. They’d made the decision to shave it, and so later they Watson-Holmeses sat down together in Hamish’s room and John and Sherlock helped Hamish shave off his own hair.

 

Thankfully, the fourteenth day was to be the last. The nurses from the treatment centre came by wishing him well and telling him they missed seeing him every day. The nurses had been truly wonderful; John believed it was them that worked the magic around hospitals. They were the unsung heroes, cleaning up only God knows what and keeping a smile on their face (dropping the façade at the nurses’ station, of course) and bringing cheer to even the saddest of patients, and working a lot harder than they were paid for.

 

“Hey, John, Sherlock, Hamish!” One of their particularly favoured nurses, a man called Dean greeted the family on Hamish’s first day without treatment.

“Morning Dean!” Hamish chirped back.   
“Hey, Dean.” John and Sherlock said in tandem.

“I need to take some of your blood, kiddo.” Dean said as he gestured to some vials. Drawing blood was easy with Hamish’s central line. Dean was in and out in a matter of minutes. 

John and Sherlock eagerly awaited the results. Sherlock typed away on his laptop, exchanging emails with Lestrade, as always.   
  
“Hamish, which comes first – Thoracic, Cervical, or Lumbar vertebrae?” Sherlock asked without looking up from his mad typing.

“From top to bottom, Cervical, Thoracic, and then Lumbar, Father.” Hamish beamed. He went back to listening to the news.

 

John was used to Sherlock’s quizzing. He was struggling to cope with what the staff called ‘chemo brain’. Chemo made Hamish foggy and not nearly as sharp as he usually was – he was more like a regular seven year old, actually, and John thought that’s why Sherlock hated it. John just happened to be surveying the room (as he had a habit of doing every five minutes) when Hamish’s pulse oximeter showed Hamish having some serious arrhythmias.

 

“ _Shit, Sherlock_ ,” John yelled as he rushed over to press the page button. He felt for Hamish’s pulse The nurses, hearing the commotion going on, rushed in.

“ _Dad, I can’t breathe,_ ” Hamish struggled to say.

The nurses, in a rush, pushed John out of the way, and he took a few steps back. Sherlock enveloped John, pulled him over to the cot and curled John up in his lap. John struggled at first, but Sherlock held John tightly. John was enraged by how calm Sherlock was, and he went to say something, but in the sudden stillness the two had acquired inside Sherlock’s coat, John could hear Sherlock’s heart thrumming away, far too fast. 

“Sherly,” John sighed into Sherlock’s chest.

“John, shhh,” Sherlock soothed, rubbing John.

 

The scurry of activity was still intense, and Sherlock and John did all they could – nothing.

 

“We’re going to need to intubate.” A voice said.

 

The flurry continued until a nurse finally came over and told Mr and Mr Watson-Holmes that Hamish was stable. Spencer touched Sherlock on the shoulder and asked them to follow him to his office.

“What the hell was that?” John asked with one hand gripping the arm of the chair in one hand and Sherlock’s hand in the other in some kind of white knuckled death-grip. 

“I have my best staff performing extensive tests now. Is there any history or family history of heart problems?”

 

The questioning continued for quite some time.

 


	7. Caring is not an advantage after all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock struggle to cope with Hamish's prognosis.

In walking back into Hamish’s room, neither man was quite sure what to expect. Hamish lay, still as a corpse. He was no longer intubated, which was a good sign, but he was covered in wires to monitor him more closely. John let out a little squeak, and Sherlock clamped down on John’s hand.

 

“Shit,” John exhaled.

“What exactly is wrong with him?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“We can’t be sure as of y–” Spencer said  
“What are your theories?” Sherlock cut him off tersely.

“Initial findings are suggestive of heart failure. There’s also been some seizure activity, so we sedated him. We don’t know why.” Spencer folded.

“You what?” John exhaled in fury.

 

John, in a fit of rage, became twice his size. He glided across the few meters toward Spencer. Sherlock was conscious of John’s intent, to maim the poor doctor and so he crossed the space in one step, wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled back. John was so thin. The tiny layer of fat he had on him had disappeared completely; he was half as muscly as he was before. Sherlock wrestled him onto the cot they now called home.

 

“John, _stop_.” Sherlock whispered into his ear. John became lifeless and violent sobs racked his body. Sherlock looked up at Spencer, who was barely shaken by John’s adverse reaction to the bad news.

 

“Look, he’ll be under for a few hours, here. Go out, get some sun; you both look terrible. You have to take care of yourselves, alright? He’s in good care here, and if you’re still out when he wakes up, I’ll call you.” Spencer said sincerely. Sherlock pulled John up and led him through the winding halls of the hospital, leading him outside.

 

“Sherlock, I don’t feel like going anywhere.” John said, dragging back.

“Do you think I do, John? Come on.” Sherlock spat as he pulled further along. 

Turning out of the hospital grounds and along the street, Sherlock continued to drag John. Sherlock pulled John into the reception of a rather dingy looking hotel.   
  
“One night, king bed please.” Sherlock panted ravenously at the receptionist, a young man, who took Sherlock’s card and threw a key in return. “Thank you.”

 

Sherlock seemed to know his way around the motel; he walked straight to the room with John in close tow. He unlocked the door and dragged John inside. When Sherlock stopped, John didn’t – he pushed Sherlock onto the bed and kissed him, afire with passion and fuelled by emotion. Sherlock kissed back, rolling John over and pinning him. Wordlessly, they undressed each other. Sherlock reached into a pocket of his coat, producing a condom and a few packets of lubrication. John started to prime himself for Sherlock, but Sherlock took over for him. It had been a while since Sherlock had been on top. John sat in Sherlock’s lap, and delicately nibbled just under his jaw. John caressed Sherlock’s hard member, teasing him for what was to come. With his tongue, he worked his way down to Sherlock’s ucipital mapilary and sucked. He pressed his tongue flat against Sherlock’s raging pulse, bounding in his throat. With the help of Sherlock, John was ready. After rolling a condom onto himself and making use of the lubrication, Sherlock pushed John onto his back and slowly entered him. John continued to suck on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock lifted John’s legs up, so he could get as deep inside John as possible. They moved together, becoming more violent in their pleasure. John’s back arched, and Sherlock reached down and took John’s swollen member in his hand. The smell of their sweat began to permeate the air.  Sherlock was getting closer. Sherlock made sure John kept up. With a final deep stroke, Sherlock came. John moaned and spilled all over himself. Panting, Sherlock and John showered together. They threw themselves into the bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

 

*

John awoke in the unfamiliar bed, still feeling the bliss of a dreamless night and the smell of sex, John smiled to himself. Sherlock, still asleep, rolled over, his head landing square in the middle of John’s chest. The sunshine shining through the cheap curtains illuminated the whole room, casting a warm, yellow glow across everything, including Sherlock’s face. Sherlock looked terrible; he never ate, or drank, or slept, and barely breathed, and it was showing in the hollow of his bruised eye sockets, and the way his usually tight clothing hung off his already unhealthily small frame. Sherlock was internalising his emotions, which never led to anything good. John made a mental note to ask Spencer if Sherlock would be able to bring his violin into Hamish’s room. That would up everyone’s spirits. Hamish loved watching his father be completely absorbed into his playing, enamoured by the way Sherlock and his violin each moved, a give and take dance resulting in beautiful music. It was music borne with passion, and fire that Sherlock knew not how or maybe even dare not express in any other way, and with the music he chose, or that he composed himself always sounded a negotiation, a compromise between Sherlock, his emotions, and the wants and needs of his violin, which at times seemed far too small and fragile to handle the force of the raw emotion with which Sherlock played. In that sense it kind of mirrored the dynamic between Sherlock and John; Sherlock appearing fragile and small, and being the only emotional outlet for John, but everyone pulled through, they always did, why would this time be different? They had to pull through.

 

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked sleepily.

“Yeah, why do you ask?” John asked, stroking Sherlock’s hair.

“Your heart is _racing_. I can feel it. What are you thinking about?”

“You, Hamish.”

 

Sherlock shuffled in closer, kissed John over his heart, and placed his head back in the middle of John’s chest. He started to absentmindedly rub John’s slim sides.

 

“Love you,” Sherlock sighed against John’s chest.

“Love you too, Sherlock.”

“Let’s go see our son.”

“Good idea.”

 

Sherlock rolled off John, and he sat up to yawn and stretch.

 

“Shit, it’s already half ten,” John said, jumping out of bed.

“It’s fine, John. Spencer hasn’t called.”

 

The men pulled on their clothing from the previous day, and in a sleepy haze, it took them a little longer than usual. After checking out, Sherlock and John strode up the street, back through the winding halls of the hospital and into Hamish’s room. Hamish laid still, breathing, and doing little else. Hamish’s favourite nurse, Dean, came in.

 

“Hey guys; glad to see you left for a bit. He hasn’t woken up yet, but he should pretty soon.” Dean said.

“Thanks, Dean. Would it be alright if Sherlock brought his violin in and played occasionally? He’s usually very quiet and we’ll keep it to whenever suits the hospital and the patients if it is particularly audible.” John asked.

“Since families often spend quite a long time here, the rooms are reasonably soundproof, so it probably won’t be very audible outside the room. It’s obviously something Hamish is used to at home, and it will probably make him feel a lot better, and we’ve had people bring in instruments before, so it should be fine.” Dean smiled.

“Thanks, Dean.”  
“No problem.” Dean strode out of Hamish’s room.

“Sherlock, stay here, I’ll be back.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John left, presumably to fetch Sherlock’s violin and perhaps some toiletries. Sherlock was curled up in the chair next to Hamish’s bed. His arms were crossed atop his knees, which he has pulled up to his chest. Sherlock sat, sort of meditating, as he did, in an attempt to filter out the bad and unpleasant thoughts. Sometimes they were too much to manage, and when they did, he used to go and seek his favourite seven percent solution, but he couldn’t now; for his family, who needed him. Sherlock got lost in the labyrinthine twists and turns of his extraordinary mind.

 

“ _John, it’s not going to work have you any idea how rare donor hearts are especially when you consider that he can’t have one from an adult because it would be too big and that would compromise his other organs and the new heart itself it’s not going to work how do we get a heart? He’s extraordinary John he has to have one John how do we do this?_ ” Sherlock ranted monotonously, but John wasn’t there to hear him, not that he really noticed. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he could just feel his own traitorous heart thrumming like a jackhammer inside his ribcage, which felt far too small to contain such a violent corporeality. His chest swallowed him whole; the surge of adrenaline made his already struggling breath catch. His whole body felt as though he were engulfed in flames and that there was not a single thing he could do. Sherlock panted, hyperventilated; tried everything to just _breathe_ but his body was relentless; he was being swallowed whole and all he could do was wait for the inevitable – death.

 

“Shit, Sherlock,” John exhaled, seeing the state Sherlock was in. John gently grabbed Sherlock’s ankles and put his feet on the floor. He put Sherlock’s head between his own knees and rubbed his back, trying to soothe him. Sherlock took a few minutes to calm down. John stood up, to stretch his back, and Sherlock pulled John onto his lap, and wrapped his arms very tightly around John’s middle, and nuzzling into his husband’s chest.

 

“You okay?” John asked simply.

Sherlock exhaled as a means of response. His heart was still positively _racing_ , but he felt much better with John in his arms. Being overwhelmed and crippled by the enormity of simply existing was something Sherlock often suffered, but here, his family was facing something they may not pull through together, and Sherlock was not equipped to cope with such things; _caring is not an advantage after all._


	8. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes AWOL, and Hamish has an emergency, and Molly visits, and there's an empty bed, and there's an argument, and there's just too damned much.  
> Oh, Lord; John just can't keep up.

“Father, I don’t feel well.” Hamish sighed into Sherlock’s coat. Hamish’s bed allowed for more than enough room for either John or Sherlock to curl up next to their son, and they both took advantage of this often. Sherlock had continued to read to Hamish; Hamish barely had the strength to hold up the heavy tomes in which he often chose to invest his time.

“I know, honey. What hurts?” Sherlock asked, putting the book down.

“It hurts to breathe.” Hamish said, snuggling into Sherlock further. His damp breath came shallow.

“I think we’ll have to insert a chest tube, Hamish. Sit up a bit; it’ll be easier to breathe.” Sherlock rearranged Hamish so his top half was elevated. Hamish was suffering with a pleural effusion, and he was making it difficult to deal with – John decided that his newfound recalcitrance was born from his complete lack of control and freedom in hospital, with his body, boredom, and fear. Sherlock was good at wrangling Hamish into doing what was best without a fight, but he knew this chest tube was going to be difficult.

“I don’t want it. I shan’t have it.” Hamish squeaked.

“Hamish, you need it. Why don’t you want it? It won’t hurt, and it’s just until the fluid clears.” John said, putting his laptop down.

“ _Because._ ” Hamish spat. His bottom lip quivered, and he promptly burst into tears and made a hell of a lot of noise for someone so small that was struggling to breathe. Sherlock held his hand and tried to calm him down by whispering in his ear, which usually worked, but not today. Hamish choked, and coughed, and sobbed until the pulse oximeter was flashing red showing that his blood oxygen saturation was getting low. 

“Hamish, you need to calm down, okay. Breathe.” Sherlock said, looking worried. Hamish didn’t. He made choking noises he hadn’t made since he was an infant.

“Sherlock, he’s not breathing. Sherlock, we have to do something.” John strode over and pulled the stethoscope down from its place hanging on the tray the nurses had left in the room. He slid his hand behind Hamish’s back, forcing him to sit up a little straighter, and with a terrified expression, he moved the bell of the instrument around on Hamish’s chest, and then on his back as well.

“Hamish, lie down.” John said, gently cradling his son’s bald head as though he were a newborn while Sherlock pulled away the pillows and held Hamish’s hand.

“Take a deep breath, Hamish, from here.” John asked calmly, gently laying his hand across where Hamish’s diaphragm would be. “Keep taking long, deep breaths, Hamish.”

John moved the stethoscope over his son’s chest again.

“Hamish, you need a chest tube. Don’t you think for a second that I would put you through that if it wasn’t going to save your life.” John said, still listening. Hamish’s heart sped at mention of the chest tube, and not wanting a repeat of the episode, which John decided was an anxiety attack of sorts, tried to soothe his son. He hung up the stethoscope, replaced the pillows and slid onto the bed next to his son. Hamish was too exhausted to cry, but he clung onto John’s sweater for dear life and fell asleep.

“Like father, like son.” John sighed quietly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

“What are we going to do?” John asked Sherlock.

“Everything that can be done and even things that they incorrectly tell us can’t be done. This time next year, we’ll be coming in for maintenance therapy, and everything will be back to normal.” Sherlock said, looking over his laptop.

“We don’t even know how the first round of chemo went; they only took the first post-chemo bloods yesterday. Sherlock, they’re not going to put him on the transplant list.”

“Yes they will.”

“He’s not going to last long, look at him, Sherlock.”  
“ _Shut up_ ,” Sherlock snapped.

 

Spencer walked into the room quietly, in his usual measured manner.

 “Afternoon, gentlemen. Hamish’s blood work indicates he’s progressing exactly as planned. His plan originally pertained to him having left hospital already, for a month or so before running another course of chemo, but all things considered, neither leaving the hospital or chemo is a viable option until we sort out his heart. The cause of the seizure he had was chemo. It’s unlikely that he will suffer another, but we will keep a very close watch.” Spencer monologued.

 

“What are we doing – what are we doing _right now_ to fix him?” Sherlock murmured with intensity.

“We wait. We find out _exactly_ what is wrong with his heart and we go from there.” Spencer said.

“Well, start running tests.” Sherlock decided, pursing his lips.

“Dean will be in in a minute; he’s great with Hamish, so I hear. He’ll do an echo for starters. We might want to do a stress test as well.” Spencer said.

“He’s in no state to run on a treadmill, even if he _tried_.” Sherlock spat.

“We can do a nuclear test.” Spencer said.

“What if he has a seizure? Strokes out?”

“Sherlock,” John warned. He agreed with Sherlock, it seemed reckless to do a stress test, even nuclear, when they didn’t seem to know anything.

“We’ll see what the echo shows up, and go from there, all right?” Spencer said and walked out the door, trying to hide his anger.

“He’s been in his office, fraternising, with that cardiologist hurrying past, straightening her skirt, hasn’t he?” Hamish exhaled wearily, but with a smile on his face.

“I would be inclined to agree, Hamish. I’m so proud of you.” Sherlock said kindly, kissing his son on the forehead. Hamish dozed off, which was commonplace; he spent more time asleep than he did awake.

 

“Sherlock, want to go to that hotel again?” John asked, a wicked smile creeping across his face; the first genuine one in weeks.  
  
No response.

 

“Sherlock? You okay?”

 

Nothing.

 

“Sher–”

“ _Watson.”_ Sherlock spat furiously. He used ‘Watson’ because two syllables was much more earnest than one in terms of conveying anger through a single word, and John’s full name was too wordy in such a context. Sherlock was both enraged and impressed when John pointed this out to Sherlock.

“Watson- _Holmes_ ”

“You say that like it’s a threat.” Sherlock said with disdain.

“Maybe it is. For God’s sake; stop working for a minute and _look at me_. ” John said through gritted teeth.

“John, I have no time for your petulant and child–”

“ _Sherlock._ ”

“ _Watson-Holmes”_

“Sherlock, what do you need from me? You never stop working; you’re not interested in sex; you can barely even look at me. Why?” John said softly, gingerly walking over to Sherlock and sitting next to him, but keeping a few inches distance for safe measure. It felt like a mile to John. Sherlock’s body language softened. He turned his head to look at John.

“I am _trying_ to help our _son._ Our _dying_ son. If you have nothing to offer in terms of assisting me, I suggest you go find one of your old girlfriends to become sexually frustrated over in stead.” Sherlock spat.

“You know what, Sherlock? I just, I can’t, I,” John stammered. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.” John said darkly.

 

John swiftly walked out the door, grabbing his black coat hanging off the back of an armchair and left. Sherlock remained with his laptop, but he wasn’t working, he was researching Hamish’s conditions, and seeking alternative and experimental treatments; cutting edge medicine. He kept a few tabs open in the browser containing information which Hamish would find interesting, and he made sure to document every page he read, most of which were online editions of medical journals. John had gone back to 221B to try and reimmerse himself in his most familiar environment. John didn’t feel like himself. Out of habit, he put the kettle on, and sat in his favourite chair. Mrs Hudson had been keeping the place tidy; he made a mental note to give her some flowers. The kettle had just flicked itself off, boiled, when the doorbell rang. John had been home all of five minutes for the first time in nearly a month, and he had a visitor. John peered out the window in an attempt to deduce who their visitor could be. No luck – no recognisable cars and he couldn’t quite see the landing. No matter; he limped his way down the stairs and opened the door.

 

“Oh, Molly, hello.” John said brightly in surprise.

“John, hi, yeah, I’ve just been texting Sherlock and he said you might be home, and I thought I’d drop by and see how you were going. How are you?” Molly stammered.

“The kettle’s just boiled; come on up.” John said. Molly struggled through the door with the big garbage bag she was carrying being full enough to hinder her. “Did you want a hand with that?” John asked.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Molly said.

“Now you haven’t answered mine.” John said.

“I’ll be right with this,” Molly said muffled by the package, after having noticed the return of John’s limp.

The two made it inside the apartment, and John flicked the kettle over again and prepared two cups of tea. The kettle flicked off in a matter of seconds.

“Thanks, John. With you two being away, my morgue was commandeered by people I don’t like, and so I had a fair bit more spare time, so I made this for Hamish.” Molly said, thrusting the bag to John, who put his cup down to receive it.

“Molly, wow, this is _incredible_.” John gasped.

John opened the bag to pull out a quilt, with hand-made patches of all Hamish’s favourite things – Dinosaurs, frogs, space (much to Sherlock’s chagrin, Hamish had become fascinated with space), his favourite philosophers, mathematical constructs and even a few of his favourite molecular structures were creatively patched onto the quilt. “Molly, I, he’ll love it. This is incredible! Thank you!” John kissed her on the cheek.

“So how have you been, John?” Molly asked sincerely.

“Of course things have been tough, but we’re managing.”  
“I mean, how are _you_ doing, _really_?” Molly reiterated.

“Look, it’s tough, I’m scared, Hamish is on death’s door; Sherlock is worrying me. There’s nothing I can do for my family except sit and watch as this all happens and I _hate_ it.” John exhaled.

“You’re doing all you, or anyone can, John. Things will work out; they have to. Sherlock has never faced dealing with loss before, and we have to try and do what’s best for him. Hamish comes first of course. How is he?” Molly offered as condolence. She was right, as always.

“Hamish needs a new heart, and he’s too small for an adult heart – it would compromise his other organs and really do more harm than good if a match was found in an adult. We’re not going to find a donor, Molly. He’s going to die.” John ranted. “I’m losing Sherlock as well as Hamish and I don’t know what to do.”  
“Sherlock will be Sherlock, but he needs to step up. I won’t let him leave you out to dry like this.”

“Molly, he’s never had to face anything like this, has he? Has he ever had anyone close enough to mourn over?”  
“I don’t think so, but that’s not an excuse.”

“How can I get him to come back down to earth? He’s just, he’s just _gone._ ”

“Why don’t we go see Hamish? Is he up for visitors?”

“Yes; he’d love to see you.”

 

John led Molly through the quiet hospital to Hamish’s room. Unsurprisingly, he was listening to the news.

 

“Hey, Hamish, how’re you feeling?” John asked, limping in to his son’s bedside. John always had impeccable bedside manner. Hamish opened his eyes, and turned the television off. His eyes fell on Molly, and his face brightened significantly.

 

“Molly! It’s so good to see you,” Hamish said with as much enthusiasm as he was capable of exuding.

“It’s good to see you too,” Molly smiled warmly, not quite hiding her shock at just how sickly Hamish looked.

“You didn’t answer my question,” John teased.

“Sorry, what, Dad?” Hamish asked.

“How are you _feeling_?” John asked, smiling.

“Fine, fine.” Hamish answered.

“I made something for you.” Molly declared, gently resting the garbage bag on Hamish’s small knees.

 

Hamish gently pried the bag open, and liberated the quilt. He examined the patchwork with wide eyes, and the most colour in his cheeks he’d had since being hospitalised. Hamish looked up at Molly in awe.

 

“Molly, this is, I mean, wow, uh, _thank you_ ,” Hamish said in wonderment and of course, immense gratitude.

“My pleasure, Hamish. I’m glad you like it.” Molly smiled sweetly.

“Like it? I _love_ it.” Hamish smiled. John grabbed the garage bag and folded it up. Molly helped Hamish spread it across the bed.

 

“Had any interesting cases in the lab recently?” Hamish asked Molly. They often discussed Molly’s work, and sometimes if a case beckoned, Sherlock and John would leave Hamish in the care of Molly at the lab.

“I had a man come in, with this odd black goo oozing from his left ear. We’re awaiting the results of the tests, but a couple of them will take a few more days.” Molly said.

“Oh, gross. Excellent. Any ideas?” Hamish asked, intrigued.

“No, no idea; the stuff looks like tar, except for its placement.” Molly giggled.

“That’s so odd,” Hamish laughed.

 

The alarm on one of Hamish’s monitors went off, and Hamish’s body went ridged, and he started seizing. Molly and John sprang into action. Molly pulled all the covers off Hamish, and John took away his pillows, pressed the _code blue_ button, and lowered the top half of the bed so it was horizontal. He pulled Hamish onto his side, trying to minimise the damage Hamish could do to himself. Hospital staff rushed in, and pulled John and Molly into the hallway before rushing back in to assist.

 

John froze. He was rooted to the ground; he was an immovable object. Sheer terror had rendered him completely useless. Molly intervened. She led John the few steps to the nearest seat and sat him down.

 

“John, breathe.” Molly soothed, bending John forward in his seat and rubbing his back. Molly pried John’s hands apart and slid one of hers into his. Sherlock, the unstoppable force flew out of nowhere and into Hamish’s room without acknowledging Molly or John. The commotion inside Hamish’s room stopped, meaning one of two things. Suddenly, a nurse jumped on Hamish and started to perform CPR. Another nurse closed the curtain around Hamish’s bed, concealing the situation. A few staff wrangled Sherlock out of Hamish’s room, and Molly stood up.

 

“ _Sherlock Holmes,_ ” Molly began tersely, walking straight up to the dishevelled man. “ _How dare you treat John like that, and at a time like this? You should be ashamed of yourself.”_

Molly stared Sherlock straight in the eyes as she delivered her line, a feat she often struggled with in normal circumstances. Sherlock was vacant. He stared straight through Molly’s furious gaze and remained silent. Sherlock offered no response.

 

“ _Sherlock._ ” Molly warned.

 

Still nothing.

 

“John, I’m so sorry. Call me later, all right?” Molly said sweetly, wiping a single tear from John’s prickly cheek.

“Thanks, Molly; I will.” John smiled wistfully.

 

Molly strode off quickly.  A doctor marched out of Hamish’s room and stood in front of John.

 

“Any news?” John asked the well-presented woman.

“He had a severe seizure, as you saw. We administered muscle relaxants intravenously, and he’ll probably be awake for a few more minutes until the drugs put him under. We’ve ordered more scans.” She said, walking off with a nod.

 

John tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest and stepped into Hamish’s room. Hamish’s eyes were half open. He looked so small under the pale sheets.

 

“Hey, H.” John said, reaching for Hamish’s hand. “Everything’s going to be okay; just get some rest, Father and I are working on it, okay.”

“Hm, good,” Hamish sighed.

 

*

 

John didn’t leave Hamish’s bedside that night, but John must have fallen asleep, because when he noticed the sun started to cast a glow through the window, Sherlock was laying on the cot, awake.

 

“Sherlock.”

“John,”

 

“John, don’t be mad.”

“I have every right.”

“Just as I do.”

“At _what_?”

“…I don’t have the energy to argue, John.”  
“That’s pathetic. When was the last time you ate?”  
“Don’t remember.”  
“Yes you do.”

The two men sat in a thick silence, strangling them both.

 

“Dad, Father,” Hamish croaked happily.

“Good to see you awake, H. We nearly lost you last night.” John said.

“Sorry about that,” Hamish said.

“Don’t be silly, H.” John smiled. “Are you hungr?” John asked. Hamish knew that Dad asked that, even though he knew he wasn’t hungry. It was the only way to get Father to eat.

“Yeah, Dad, I am.” Hamish said, smiling at his clever Dad. Sherlock had figured it out, but often ate anyway to please his family. John left for the canteen, whose staff greeted John by name, and John in return knew theirs. He grabbed the most appetising food he could find, some orange juice, and a chocolate bar for each of them for later. John was starting to feel like his family was a family again despite the tension; the hospital had become comforting, normal, and a few more artefacts from home had creeped in. The throw Molly had constructed adorned the bed, brightening the room; books strewn everywhere; diagrams were carefully applied to the walls. It wasn’t perfect, but contextually, it was as close to perfect as they were going to get.   
  
John absent-minedly made his way back into Hamish’s room, balancing styrofoam containers on his arms. He looked up to find himself in an empty hospital room, and stepped out. _‘I really must pay more attention.”_ John thought to himself. He stepped back out and turned to the empty nurses’ station, and tried to gain his bearings. He couldn’t feel which way to go, he really had to look, before he realised that he was in the right spot; he had walked into Hamish’s room. John stepped back in and placed the food on the almost defunct wheelie table.

 

The bed was empty, not made. Sherlock was gone. The bathroom was empty.

 

The IV was dripping on the floor.

 

No.

 

*


End file.
